Tulane shook his head. ‘Nope. But I think you’re right. I figure whoever was involved got disturbed before they could finish the business. I even have a hunch my horse played a part.’
‘Your horse?’
‘Seems like the cut to my head could have been caused by a kick.’ Tulane took a sip of his brandy, savouring it on the tongue. He was no expert, but it tasted expensive. Rockwell continued to regard him closely before speaking again.
‘You know something about the way things are fixed here?’ he remarked.
Tulane took his time before replying. ‘Like I said, my whole memory’s kinda vague.’
‘I understand,’ Rockwell replied. ‘In any case, there’s no need to go into all that just at the moment. You could probably do with some time to familiarize yourself with the set-up. My foreman, that’s Mr Walbrook, will take you over to the bunkhouse and fill you in with the details.’
Tulane was not sorry that the introductions seemed to be over for the moment. He realized he was on very tricky ground. If he could get some further information from Walbrook he would be more than happy. He didn’t intend staying around for longer than that. Thankfully, after a few moments Walbrook rose to his feet and Tulane wasted no time in doing likewise.
‘Follow me,’ Walbrook said.
‘I’ll see you again in due course,’ Rockwell concluded. ‘In the meantime, make yourself comfortable.’
Tulane nodded and together he and the foreman left the room. They crossed a yard and continued past the stables till they reached the bunkhouse. Walbrook opened the door. The place was empty but a lot of the spaces were obviously spoken for. Walbrook escorted him to a vacant bunk.
‘Hope this is satisfactory,’ he remarked.
‘It’ll do fine,’ Tulane replied.
‘I’ll come back and talk to you later,’ Walbrook said.
To prevent him moving away, Tulane produced his pouch of Bull Durham. ‘Join me in a smoke?’ he said. Walbrook shrugged but sat down on a chair next to the bunk. Tulane took out some tobacco and a paper before handing the pack to the foreman. They rolled a couple of thin cigarettes and lit up.
‘Mr Rockwell was sayin’ about you explainin’ things,’ Tulane prompted.
Walbrook regarded him suspiciously. ‘All that can wait,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but I need to get a handle on what’s been happenin’. Things haven’t been makin’ a lot of sense since I got bushwhacked.’
‘Well, like I said before, you got the Pitchfork L to thank for that.’
‘What’s the deal with this Pitchfork L outfit?’
‘Take it from me; they’re a bunch of low-down coyotes. They’ve been causin’ the Bar Nothing a heap of trouble. Well, the time’s come to put a stop to them once and for all. That’s why you’re here. Believe me, Mr Rockwell has a high regard for your reputation. Now if it was me, I’d have gone up against those varmints long before now. We’ve got the men to do it. But Mr Rockwell, I guess he’s just more patient than I am. Now you’re here, though, I figure it won’t be long till we hit the Pitchfork good and hard.’
‘I see. And you figure the Pitchfork got word I was on my way. How could that have happened?’
Walbrook shrugged his shoulders. ‘How should I know?’ he said. ‘It’s only a theory. Maybe I’m wrong. But it sure looks that way.’
Tulane grinned. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘just so long as Mr Rockwell is willin’ to pay, I’m ready to fight.’
Walbrook blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘That’s the way,’ he said. ‘Yup, it’s real good to have you on board. I can see we’re gonna have a lot of fun puttin’ the Pitchfork in its place.’ He took another few pulls on the cigarette before standing up and flicking it on the dirt floor. He stubbed it out with the heel of his boot.
‘I got to get back,’ he concluded, ‘but feel free to take a look around. Supper will be ready about six. I’ll see you then.’
He turned and made his way out of the bunkhouse. Tulane waited just long enough to finish his cigarette before he too made his exit.
When he got outside he began to stroll away from the ranch house. The sun was getting low in the sky and he was surprised there were not more people about. What had happened to Folsom and his two companions? He was pretty certain, however, that he was under observation. His instincts told him that there was more activity taking place than appeared to the eye, and it was unlikely that Rockwell would allow him to have free scope of the ranch and its environs. He made a mental note of the layout of the place. It might come in useful later.
When he had made a casual survey he bent his steps in the direction of the stables. He had seen and learned enough and he was not willing to take unnecessary chances. Rockwell probably had his doubts about him already, and there was a danger that the real Spade might turn up at any moment. He was hoping that the stable block might be deserted, but it was too much to expect. He was barely inside the building before a dark shape detached itself from the surrounding gloom and took a step towards him.
‘Who are you?’ a voice snapped.
‘The name’s Spade. I’m new here.’
The man was closer now. He looked like an old-timer. His lined face was blank. Tulane looked beyond him towards the back of the stables.
‘That there mustang’s my horse.’
The man’s expression relaxed. ‘So many new faces around here recently,’ he grumbled.
‘Is that right?’
‘I don’t like it,’ the man said. ‘Time was a body knew who he was workin’ with.’ He looked Tulane up and down. ‘You don’t look like some of the others. I figure most of ’em ain’t been anywhere near a cattle drive. How about you? You ever trailed a herd of beefs before?’
‘Sure. Figure I know the old Chisholm Trail as good as anybody.’
‘Ah, the old Chisholm Trail!’ The oldster’s face creased in a grin. He looked back over his shoulder.
‘That’s sure a powerful horse,’ he said. Together they wandered over to the stall. ‘He’s been grained,’ the man commented.
‘That’s good. I kinda figured I might go for a ride, take a look at the range.’
‘Your saddle is right there on a nail.’
Tulane took it and slung it on the back of the mustang. He had just finished tightening the girths when the doorframe was darkened and another man stepped into the barn. Tulane glanced up. It was Folsom.
‘You ain’t going nowhere,’ he said.
‘Ain’t that for Mr Rockwell to decide?’
Folsom took a few paces forward and two other men entered the stable behind him. One of them was Rockwell.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It is my decision. And I say you stop right here.’
Tulane shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’ He bent forward to adjust the saddle and Rockwell spoke again.
‘I figure you got some explainin’ to do.’
‘Yeah? What about?’
‘Like how come there are two people claimin’ to be Lonnie Spade.’
Tulane hesitated, but only for an instant. Before anybody had time to react, he had swung himself on board the mustang. The oldster moved nimbly away as the horse edged sideways. Digging his spurs into its flanks, Tulane brought it under control and rode straight towards Rockwell and his two henchmen. One of them reached for his gun. Tulane saw a glint of metal but before the man’s finger could close on the trigger the mustang had brushed him aside. There were yells from Rockwell’s men but Tulane had already cleared the doorframe. He did not pause but, tugging on the reins, headed towards the yard in front of the ranch house.
Shots rang out behind him but they flew wide. Off to his right the door of the bunkhouse sprang open. The building had seemed to be unoccupied but now a couple of men burst through the door. They had obviously been taken by surprise and Tulane was more or less out of range before either of them had the presence of mind to draw his gun and fire.
He was going hell for leather now. He knew that Rockwell’s men would so
on be coming after him and he was keen to put as much distance as possible between him and the Bar Nothing. He wasn’t too concerned that any pursuers would be able to catch him. The mustang was strong and clean-limbed. Once he got going there was little chance of being caught. Besides, he had another plan up his sleeve to evade his pursuers. The only thing that concerned him was the prospect of running into some of the other Bar Nothing ranch hands, and his fears were realized when a bunch of riders appeared ahead of him.
Immediately he changed direction, veering to his left. He glanced behind him. Away in the distance, back towards the ranch house, a gathering cloud of dust told him that the pursuit had got under way from that quarter. The mustang was sweating and foam flew from its nostrils, but Tulane knew that it was far from spent. Now, instead of carrying on riding hard, he drew back on the reins and allowed the horse to slow. It settled to a trot and then a jog. He could sense the power in its bunched muscles and the urge it felt to carry on running, but he held it in check.
He looked about him. Both sets of riders were drawing much closer. They were coming on at a fast gallop. He could hear the thud of hoofs and the faint shouts of the horsemen. Soon they would be within shooting range. Still he held the mustang back. The men were shouting loudly now and then he heard the first crack of a rifle shot. The moment had come.
With a final glance at the straining horses of his pursuers, Tulane dug his spurs into the mustang’s flanks. The big beast responded immediately. Its pent-up energy released, it bounded forward like a thunderbolt. Tulane leaned low over the saddle, feeling the wind part as the mustang tore across the range, its feet scarcely touching the ground. Tulane let out a whoop of sheer exhilaration.
When he glanced back, he could see that the pursuing groups of horsemen were left far in his wake. Their horses had bottomed out and they were reduced to little more than a walking pace. There was plenty of strength and determination in the mustang, but Tulane had accomplished his aim and didn’t want to take any chances. Confident now that he was safe from his pursuers, he slowed the horse down to an easy canter.
‘Good boy,’ he said, and stroked its mane.
He carried on riding for a time. The afternoon was drawing in and soon the light would fade. Eventually he brought the mustang to a halt near a clump of trees and swung down to let the horse rest and feed. Later, he would make his way under cover of darkness back to Water Pocket. Lying down on the grass, Tulane felt in his jacket pocket and produced the corncob pipe Jordan had given him. He filled it with tobacco and lit it, drawing the smoke in deeply. He stretched his legs. On the whole, it had been a good day. He had learned a lot. He figured he knew now just what the situation was into which he had ridden.
Despite the fact that it was two men from the Bar Nothing who had found him unconscious on the range, it seemed the Bar Nothing was the villain of the piece. It looked like Marsden Rockwell was about to wage war on the Pitchfork L and he had been hiring a number of gunslingers to fight his cause. Tulane had been mistaken for one of them. He had a feeling that he and Lonnie Spade were destined to come up against one another and pretty soon, because he had already taken the decision to side with the Pitchfork L. That would be his next port of call.
As he relaxed, he found himself thinking of Miss Winona. Although he had only just met her, she seemed like a nice lady. He guessed that Pocket had made his way back to the Sumac without any difficulty. Sometime, after he got back himself, he would have to listen to the youngster play a tune on his banjo.
Night had fallen on the Bar Nothing. Marsden Rockwell sat alone at his desk looking through some papers. The only illumination was shed by an oil lamp turned low, which cast the rancher’s reflection on the darkened window pane. He was not in the best of spirits. Despite his words to Tulane, Lonnie Spade had still not appeared. They had been intended to flush the man out. They had done that but the only result was that the man had made good his escape. Who was he? The uncertainty made Marsden slightly uncomfortable but he was mainly smarting because he had been made to look foolish. Well, he would have his revenge. The stranger might have got away for now, but he would catch up with him soon enough. Nobody outsmarted Marsden Rockwell.
Putting the papers he was reading to one side, he pressed his face to the window and peered into the darkness. He was about to turn back again when he was surprised to see a shadowy figure ride slowly into the yard. At the same moment his foreman Folsom also appeared. The newcomer swung down from leather and while he fastened his horse to the hitch rack, the two of them engaged in conversation. Rockwell sat back in his chair. After a few moments there was a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ Rockwell shouted.
The door opened and Folsom appeared. ‘A rider just arrived,’ he said. ‘He says his name is Lonnie Spade.’
Rockwell stiffened. ‘Show him in,’ he said, ‘and stick around yourself.’
Folsom turned and beckoned to the man who was standing behind him. As the newcomer entered Rockwell regarded him closely. He was dressed in black; his guns were slung low and tied with a thong. Instinctively, Rockwell knew that this time he had got the right man.
As he emerged into the lamplight, Rockwell saw that his face was quite badly scratched. Folsom closed the door and took up a position towards the back of the room while Rockwell rose from his chair and advanced to meet the new arrival.
‘Mr Spade,’ he said, ‘we’ve been expectin’ you.’ Spade did not reply and Rockwell continued: ‘Take a seat. I expect you could use a good shot of whiskey.’
He nodded to Folsom who proceeded to do the honours. Spade barely looked at his glass before tossing back the contents. At another nod from Rockwell, Folsom refilled it.
‘Leave the bottle on the table,’ Rockwell said.
Spade took another drink and then turned to the rancher. ‘I got your message,’ he grunted.
‘Then you’ll know my terms,’ Rockwell replied.
Spade turned towards Folsom and glowered at him. ‘What’s he doin’ here?’ he asked.
‘Mr Folsom works for me. From now on you’ll take your instructions from him.’
Spade grimaced. ‘When do we get started?’ he asked.
‘Very soon.’
‘I’ll need more money on account.’
Rockwell regarded him closely. ‘Like I just said, you know the arrangement. However, just to show good faith, you can take this.’ He bent down, opened a drawer and took out a small wad of notes, which he handed to Spade.
‘I hear you’re good,’ he said. ‘I expect you to prove it.’ Spade took the money and stuffed it into a pocket of his shirt.
‘From now on,’ Rockwell said, ‘you take your orders only from my foreman.’ He allowed his eyes to rest on Spade’s lacerated face. ‘You understand my meaning? Anything else you might be involved with is not my concern. But neither is it yours now.’
Spade turned his scowling features on Rockwell.
‘It might be an idea to bathe those scratches,’ Rockwell said. ‘Mr Folsom will show you the facilities and make sure your horse is taken care of. Good night, Mr Spade.’
Spade made as if to say something more but contented himself with finishing off his whiskey before rising to his feet. As Folsom showed him out the door, Rockwell spoke once more.
‘Remember, you’re workin’ for the Bar Nothing now.’
When the two men had gone Rockwell sat down once more at his desk. He had said that Spade’s scars were none of his concern, but all the same, he couldn’t help but wonder. He didn’t like the look of Spade one bit, but he contented himself by reflecting that their acquaintance was only a temporary expedient. Once he had control of the Pitchfork L he could afford to dispense with his services for good and all.
It was late when Clay Tulane rode into Water Pocket, a lot later than he had intended. For that reason he had decided to make his way straight to the Blue Front hotel and wait till morning to call in at the Sumac and check that Pocket had arrived safely back. When he rode
past the guest house, however, he was surprised to see lights blazing in the windows. He swung down from the mustang and tied it to the fence before walking up to the door. He knocked and was even more surprised when it was answered by Jonas Jordan.
‘Tulane!’ the ostler exclaimed. ‘Man, am I glad to see you.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’ Tulane began, but before he had time to say anything else there was a rush of movement from behind the door and Pocket appeared.
‘Mr Tulane!’ he exclaimed, echoing the ostler. ‘I knowed you’d be back.’
‘Pocket told us what occurred,’ Jordan said, seeing Tulane’s puzzled expression. ‘We were gettin’ worried. But don’t hang about in the doorway. Come on in. I expect Miss Winona will be pleased to see you too.’
Tulane stepped inside the house.
‘Don’t be concerned,’ Jordan continued. ‘There was an incident here earlier in the day but it’s all right now. Thanks to Pocket.’
Tulane gave the boy a glance before continuing into the dining room. As he entered Miss Winona herself appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her head was bandaged and she looked a little pale.
‘Mr Tulane,’ she said. ‘I should think you could do with a cup of coffee.’
‘Here, let me take that tray,’ he replied, taking a step towards her.
‘Don’t fuss,’ she replied. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’ She looked past him at Jordan and the boy as she placed the tray on the table.
‘Take a seat, all of you. I’ll be back in a moment.’ They followed her instructions and she returned carrying a plate of flapjacks.
‘Miss Winona, you shouldn’t—’ Jordan began to say but she cut him short.
‘I made these earlier,’ she said. ‘So eat up. I don’t want to see them wasted.’
With a glance at each other, they took their places at the table. She poured the coffee herself and then handed the plate of flapjacks around. Tulane took one and bit into it.
‘By jiminy,’ he said, ‘this sure tastes good.’
‘Miss Winona is famed all round town for her flapjacks,’ Jordan commented.
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